#but also Ramsay Bolton and the like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

raventreehall · 11 months ago

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a storm of swords dash simulator

🍋ladyjonquil Follow

i don't want to reveal too much but i had a really great day today hawking and riding and received some really exciting news (and maybe a potential marriage offer!) wow wow wow!!! haven't felt like this in so long 🥰

🤡florianthefool Follow

i'm so happy for you my jonquil

🐦littlefinger Follow

thanks for sharing my lady

🏹kissedbyfire Follow

PISSED OFF AT MY BF RN 🤬🤬🤬 NEVER TRUST A SOUTHERNER AND ESPECIALLY NEVER TRUST A CROW!!!!!!!

👸🏼daenerys-targaryen-tracker Follow

🐎raeqqo Follow

by the law of the dothraki she must return to vaes dothrak to take her place alongside the crones of the dosh khaleen. it is known.

🐉3heads Follow

shut up and go sack a defenseless city or something

🍁weirwoodzz Follow

hey do you guys remember when theon greyjoy took winterfell last year and killed the stark boys? has anyone heard anything else about that? feel like it kind of just disappeared from the news cycle, what happened to greyjoy?

🪓cerwynnation Follow

lord bolton's bastard killed him

🍁weirwoodzz Follow

oh really? wow. kind of extreme but deserved i guess

💗ramsays-sharpest-blade Follow

Ramsay isn't a bastard, King Joffrey legitimized him two months ago and Lord Roose is going to make him castellan of the Dreadfort soon. He loves his son and trusts his abilities. Plus, Ramsay is being awarded for his efforts in saving Winterfell and putting a stop to the ironborn raids in the North by being betrothed to Arya Stark—would a bastard be granted that honor? I don't think so.

Also, Theon isn't dead, Ramsay is (rightfully) flaying him for his crimes in the dungeons beneath the Dreadfort. Gods, I'd love to see Ramsay thrust the knife under his skin!!!!! 😜

#ramsay bolton #house bolton #our blades are sharp #theon greyjoy

🐐the-goat Follow

i'm boutta come into thome real money real thoon 😈 💎💎💎💎💯

🏰freygirl73 Follow

ughhhh my sister is getting married tmrw and my brothers keep going on about getting revenge on king robb while he's here for the feast... like i just wanted some food :/// iswtg that's the only good thing about my siblings weddings and now they're saying there won't even be any and i'm gonna have to go into hiding before the bedding ceremony or something. why can't my family just be NORMAL

🐟greenfork Follow

TW: Red Wedding, death, violence

A masterpost on what happened at the Twins and what it means for the Northern independence cause, the War of the Five Kings, and the realm in general.

Also a bunch of links on how you can help people affected in the Riverlands.

Keep Reading

🍵bowlobrown Follow

HELL YEAH BROTHER 🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

🔥heatofdorne Follow

i wanna ***** ********* on ellaria sand's **** and *** ****** then call in oberyn and ***** **** them both until **** *****

🤎pate7534 Follow

🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

🌊onthesunsetsea Follow

why are there so many crabs on my dash rn

🐺direwolfing Follow

TYWIN LANNISTER IS DEAD 🦀🦀🦀🦀

💙cassssanna Follow

actually i think it's still for king joffrey

🦁lann1sporter Follow

lol i thought it was for robb stark

🥂arborgold Follow

maybe it's for the mountain?

⬛️ freezingmyarseoffonthewall Follow

DOLOROUS EDD LORD COMMANDER 300 AC

⬛️ freezingmyarseoffonthewall Follow

DOLOROUS EDD WILL LEAD US TO VICTORY AGAINST THE OTHERS

🕊️ just-a-humble-sparrow Follow

mother have mercy i was walking by the great sept of baelor (i wanted to pay my respects to our blessed king joffrey) but i was blocked by a knight of the kingsguard—i believe it was one of the kettleblacks, unfortunately i always forget which one has been elevated to the kingsguard—because the queen was keeping vigil over her son, so i prayed outside instead. yet only a few minutes passed when i swear i saw the kingslayer arrive (he seemed to be missing a hand!) and enter. then, and this is the most disturbing part, i swear to the father that i heard noises of fornication coming from inside! i know for a fact that the only other person inside was the queen mother. could the rumors be true? i feel dirty even writing this. i wonder if i should tell my septon.

❤️‍🔥stannis-sweep Follow

stannis has literally been telling y'all and you didn't listen 🙄

🏳️ bannerless Follow

is it just me or is lady stoneheart kinda 👀

#ran out of the separators just imagine them #a storm of swords #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #a song of ice and fire

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jedimaesteryoda · 1 month ago

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Every once in a while on Twitter (not X, Elon can go screw himself), someone circulates a complaint about A Song of Ice and Fire that is basically some version of "GRRM's series is nihilistic where everyone is gray, there are no heroes and villains, or heroes die and villains win compared to Tolkien's magnum opus where there are clear heroes and villains with the heroes being upright and good always wins."

It's written by people who either never read nor understood the series nor understands the author.

Firstly, Martin himself is a fan of Tolkien stating "I revere Lord of the Rings, I reread it every few years, it had an enormous effect on me as a kid," and is such a huge fan of Tolkien he complains of "Tolkien imitators" who "cheapened it. The audience were being sold degraded goods. I thought: 'This is not how it should be done.' "

Tolkien was a clear inspiration for Martin's magnum opus given in the same interview he stated "I wanted to combine the wonder and image of Tolkien fantasy with the gloom of historical fiction." You can even find nods to Tolkien throughout the series from names like "Oakenshield" to a dwarven heir to a mighty mountain fastness filled with gold. Underneath the gloom on the surface, there is a layer of Tolkien-esque romanticism.

ASOIAF isn't nihilistic. No one would call characters like war criminal and murderer-rapists like Gregor Clegane, Ramsay Bolton and Euron Greyjoy or the vivisectionist and torturer Qyburn morally grey. There are heroes like Brienne of Tarth who risked her life in a hopeless fight to save an inn full of orphans, Sam who stayed with Gilly and her babe beyond the Wall in a forest filled with wights and Dunk who defended a puppeteer from a prince. Then, there is Daenerys whose experience as a domestic abuse victim and child bride lead her to put her plan to take back the Iron Throne on hold to liberate slaves.

My own heroes are the dreamers, those men and women who tried to make the world a better place than when they found it, whether in small ways or great ones. Some succeeded, some failed, most had mixed results… but it is the effort that’s heroic, as I see it. Win or lose, I admire those who fight the good fight. -George R.R. Martin

These characters go out of their way to help others and live up to their ideals in a world they know won't reward them for it. That's what helps to make their actions truly heroic. In the end, it's their striving that sets them apart.

The ones who are villains don't seem to win in the end. Tywin was killed by his own abused son on the privy over his mistreatment of a peasant girl, and his legacy is already crumbling. Jaime lost his sword hand and is becoming increasingly disillusioned with his house, slowly realizing that they're not the good guys. The Boltons are facing a rebellion and their new bannermen don't want Ramsay as their liege lord. More Freys have been killed as a result of the Red Wedding than fighting for Robb, and they're being overextended. Not to mention, one of their victims has come back from the dead to enact vengeance on their house. House Greyjoy is destined to fall to ruin as the Greyjoys suffer and die in their fruitless pursuits for crowns.

It's also a superficial reading of Tolkien. Tolkien has moments in his series where heroes fail like Isildur, the guy who slew Sauron, failing to do the one thing he needed to do to end the threat for all time by keeping the One Ring, and Frodo, the purported hero of the series, doing the same thing at the end. Thorin Oakenshield refused to provide money to the people of Lake-town over the destruction of their city at Smaug's hands as a result of his party's actions. There's also plenty of stories of heroes failing in The Silmarillion like Turin.

Both are great series in their own right, and if you don't like Martin's series, that's okay, no series is for everyone. But don't mischaracterize it and pit it against a dumbed down, mischaracterized version of Tolkien's work.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #tolkien #jrr tolkien #lotr #lord of the rings #middle earth #tolkienverse #fantasy #high fantasy

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starsofjewels · 5 months ago

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Mama, Papa and Baby Too

Ramsay Snow (Bolton) x Lady Bolton! Reader, Roose Bolton x Lady Bolton! Reader

NSFW!!

Any and all characters depicted in NSFW pieces are of legal age. All characters are also consenting (Unless specificed by piece)

Please read responsibly.

DARK FIC: This piece includes or is focused around a situation some readers may find uncomfortable or disturbing. Know your limits and keep yourself safe.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Incest (Stepmother x stepchild), non-descriptive/ implied incest (father x child), voyeurism, breastfeeding, foreplay (fingering + handjob), riding (Roose), Little(-ish) Ramsay, non-descriptive mention of assault (in regard to Ramsay's conception)

The Boltons are their own warning

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I've never published any smut before, so why not, in true GOT fashion, start off with a weird little incest-ridden oneshot? The gods may smite me, but Ramsay is still my baby boy, so here we are.

I apologise in advance for this characterisation of Ramsay, even though I fear it fits his character exceptionally well.

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Word count: 2.5k

You had known your stepson was unstable since before you had wed his father. A bastard boy conceived out of rape, raised by an insane servant until his mother grew tired of him, and threw him on the steps of the Dreadfort. Anyone in the North could recount the stories surrounding Ramsay Snow, how he tormented the serving girls in his father’s employ, commanding his pack of dogs to tear flesh from the servants’ bones, and naming each new pup after a girl he had slain. How he burned, and destroyed, and caused so much havoc across the Dreadfort and the lands surrounding it.

When you first arrived, to be married to the boy’s father, your maids told you, with varying levels of excitement, what he had done to Roose’s previous wife, and their only surviving son. Supposedly, your new stepson had tortured Lady Bethany to the point of insanity, to a degree that her hair fell from her scalp and her skin flaked. Her only living son, Domeric, had a worse fate still, succumbing to an ‘illness’ commonly believed to be poison in the hands of his jealous half-brother.

You are given a silver dagger to hide in your skirts, and told to not use it sparingly. Ramsay is unpredictable, and cruel, and Roose will not try to stop him.

Roose does not allow you to meet him until after the wedding. The day you finally do, the staff refuse to look at you, or speak with you as they usually would. You are taken care of, of course, fed, and bathed, dressed in Bolton pink. You feel like a sacrifice, being made-up to appease some vicious god.

“Sit, wife.”

It is not a question, but you answer anyway.

“I have no need to sit, lord husband.”

You watch him roll his eyes, fixing himself a little. You stand in silence for a good few moments, until you hear unfamiliar footsteps, which you assume belong to your stepson.

Ramsay stops in the doorway, eyeing you up as you are sure his dogs do their prey. You want so badly to reach out and take Roose’s hand, or run off. But there is no comfort for you, not now. You know your fate here, and it is not to be coddled like a doll.

He steps closer to you, and again, and again, until you can clearly see his cold, blue eyes in the dim light, sizing you up, as though he can tell exactly how to torment you.

Instead of striking you, or grasping at your hair and pulling, Ramsay cautiously wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. You gasp in surprise, expecting far worse. Glancing up at Roose, you see his brow furrow in apparent confusion, he goes to speak, Ramsay does first.

“Mama…”

He sounds like a pathetic little boy, a baby, and some part of your heart is filled by it. He takes your hand in his and puts it to his own head, and you stroke his curls as he seems to want you to. The boy preens at this, pushing himself further into the embrace.

“It seems the boy likes you, dear.”

You almost smile at his words, looking down to the boy, still hiding away in your hair.

“Aye, it does seem that way.”

Roose has shown no signs of affection towards you before, much less openly giving you pet names. You try to ignore it, putting it to the side as a one-off, a part of his surprise towards Ramsay’s affection towards you.

Your stepson stays attached to your hip for the rest of the evening. He follows you everywhere, insisting he cannot do anything without you, and although you understand the oddness of the situation, if this is what it takes to prevent yourself having the same fate as Lady Bethany, you are willing to indulge the monster.

He practically squeals in delight when you give him a sip from your wine when his father is not looking, having been barred from partaking after sunset following a particularly violent drunken escapade, the one sliver of actual parenting Roose had enforced.

By the time he is ready to retire, he is squished up beside you in your chambers, practically on your lap. You are distracted from your sewing by him gently butting into you, trying to grasp your attention. Looking out at the dark night outside your window, you glance back at Ramsay, already nearing sleep.

You sigh, setting him up on the unused side of your bed. It takes barely a moment for him to shuffle across the sheets and wrap himself around you, clinging like a baby. There is no point in denying him, part of you knows he would sneak in later, anyway.

Eventually, Roose comes to you, dressed in his nightclothes. He has never spent the night with you before, much less in your own rooms. He slips in beside his bastard, watching the two of you with mild curiosity.

“You’re good with him.”

“Thank you.”

He scoffs slightly, leaning back against the headboard to look down on the sleeping Ramsay.

“I have never seen him like this. He’ll be asking to suckle from you next, dearest.”

There it was again, a small hint of your husband’s affections for you. You are terribly glad the dim night hides the blush on your cheeks.

“He would not!”

You can make out Roose nodding his head.

“Really? He’s a man grown, Roose.”

“As if that could stop him. Keep yourself clothed around him, no matter how much you trust him, He’s a mischievous one, our Ramsay. Give him a chance and he might pounce.”

You feel Ramsay smile against your chest, and you realise he’s not yet fallen asleep. Summoning your best act, you look at your husband with mock surprise,

“My boy? Oh, I find that hard to believe, lord husband. Is he not just an angel?”

Ramsay tucks himself tighter against you, and a smile finds itself upon your lips. You kiss his curls gently, the boy giggles, glad that you consider him to be your own.

- -

The night, though young, is dark. As the Stark words always say, winter is coming. You can feel it in the cold, in the way the trees tilt in the breeze. You rest your head against Roose’s chest. The flames and your furs keep the room almost uncomfortably warm. You are the lady of the Dreadfort, after, you of all people must be shielded from the oncoming trials of winter.

The storm outside is bitter and cruel. The wind is harsh, and you are certain trees will have fallen by the morning. Every so often, if you try particularly hard, you can hear your son’s dogs howling at the weather from the kennels. You turn, your back now to Roose. He reaches his arm around you, holding you closely to him.

And your moment of intimacy, in less than a second, is ruined by the gentle tap of a hand against your bedroom door. Just from the sound of it, you know exactly who it is. You smile softly,

“Come in, darling.”

Ramsay shuffles into your bedchamber, like a child, a pout on his face which you can see from the light of the fire beside him. He is dressed in his nightshirt, his hair messy, and you know that you are in for a long night.

“Want to sleep here, Mama.”

He makes no effort to speak to your husband, not when his precious mother is waiting for him. Though Roose attempts to grasp your arms, you reach out for Ramsay, and he leaps into your bed. Before long, he has wrangled you onto your back, snuggling viciously into your chest. His attachment to you has only grown in the months you have spent as his mother, to a degree many might consider unsettling.

“Oh, love, did the storm scare you?”

The boy nods weakly, just the hint of a smile ghosting his face. His father scoffs,

“He is not a babe, my dear, the boy can manage a bit of wind.”

Ramsay glares at his father, before going back to affectionately nuzzling you. You stroke his cheek gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It is very late, Ramsay. You should try and get to sleep now.”

He shakes his head,

“Nuh. Can’t.”

Roose sighs, having given up completely, resting his head back against his pillow. Though your hands are preoccupied by the Ramsay in your arms, you lean over to kiss his cheek, something of an apology.

“Why can’t you sleep, darling?”

“I’m hungry, Mama,” He practically pleads, “I can’t sleep if I’m still hungry.”

This is always his excuse. Hunger. You think the boy must have a stomach the size of the Riverlands for how much he complains of it. But, you know his excuse well, and what it always ends with. So you smile, sweetly, and lean closer to his face.

“And what does the master want for his supper, then?”

He practically paws at your breast, begging with his big eyes, almost whimpering.

“Milk, please. Milk, Mama.”

You sigh affectionately, pressing another kiss to his face, and letting him tug down your nightdress.

“Just a little to settle your stomach, and then off to sleep, alright?”

“I promise, Mama.”

Though you are yet to have a babe of your own, Ramsay’s consistent suckling has eventually caused your breasts to swell, your body preparing its hardest for a baby who is, in fact, a grown man. This delights your boy, of course, who could spend the rest of his days living off of nothing but the milk you’ve provided him.

He is enthralled when you help his mouth find your nipple, suckling immediately. His brow furrows, waiting impatiently for his reward. He groans when your milk touches his lips, snuggling you more, mumbling thanks, or praise, or something hidden by his face buried in your breast.

You hear Roose shuffling. He sits up, and roughly pets his son’s hair. Ramsay’s eyes flick open, he glared again at his father, relaxing as you shush him gently,

“You’re alright, sweetling. Mama’s here.”

Ramsay moans again, and you feel him shift against your leg. Roose makes a laughing sound from the back of his throat.

“Someone is in need of a little affection, Mama.” He teases lightly, nipping at your neck. His stubble is rough, adding to your sensitivity. “Perhaps you should take care of our boy, and I’ll look after you.”

“I want to look after Mama!”

The boy has detached from you, pouting once more. You kiss his nose, wiping some of the milk from his mouth,

“You are looking after Mama by being a good, quiet boy. Let Papa have a turn, hm?”

He grumbles, but goes back to your breast, suckling again.

Roose, ever pragmatic, slips his hands quickly between your thighs, delving two fingers at a time into your cunt. He chuckles again at how ready you are, continuing to spread kisses up your neck,

“You get your mother in such a state, Ramsay. Here, taste.”

Your husband puts his finger to your son, you whine at the loss of pleasure, and the boy cleans it off as a starving dog. He looks from his father, to you, and snuggles up against you.

“Milk is tastier.”

And you cannot help but smile, quickly replaced by another gasped moan as Roose goes back to his previous activities. You take his hand, leading him up to your clit with no words spoken. The two of you have an understanding now. In between your groans and little twitches, you notice how Ramsay’s heart rate gets faster, how he grinds just a little against you.

“Ramsay?”

A pause.

“Mama?”

“Do you need help there, sweetling?”

He whimpers, having been caught, but nods anyway. You help him shift his nightshirt up to his hips, and carefully find his cock with your free hand. Your boy moans immediately, his hips buck, and he looks up at you with a sense of pleading. He whimpers,

“Mama… more…”

“Soon, my sweet boy. Enjoy your milk.”

You stroke him in a soft, rhythmic pattern, making sure to pay just enough attention to his weepy head to keep the boy on edge. Roose continues to tease you, you gasp every so often, reaching out for him, groaning his name. You come first, stopping your movements upon Ramsay to grip Roose’s arm, crying out for him. Ramsay takes your hand, trying to help. You kiss your husband softly, and then return your affections upon Ramsay. Roose leans back, watching.

You wrap your hand around Ramsay’s cock just the way he likes, and his nails dig into your arm. The boy nips on your breast as he comes, moaning with a mouth full of milk. Most of his mess is caught by his nightshirt, which makes him much easier to clean off. Once he has calmed down just a little, you slide him off you. He cries out, still complaining even as you shush him.

“Papa deserves a treat, too, don’t you, Papa?”

“I do.”

You sit Ramsay up, tired and comfortable, and the two of you share a private laugh as you straddle him, sinking yourself quickly upon his cock. There is no time for play, not when you have been so worked up by the evening’s activities. He moans, and you remember the man behind his cold demeanour. The one who loves you, who desires you even more than your son does.

“My- Careful, love- We are not a rutting dog, are we?”

“Hm- Your fault for being such a tease, Roose…”

He scoffs, replaced quickly by another groan. It is, indeed, his fault for teasing you. You bury your face in his neck, and bite down upon it. He moans out in surprise, jolting suddenly. The action is enough to send him over the edge, and he finishes inside of you, just as a self-respecting lord should.

Ramsay, naked, bathed and half-asleep, lies on one side of you, Roose on the other. You are the lady of the house, after all, you deserve to be treated as such. Ramsay snuggles into your chest again, full and sated.

“Hm- How is my big boy?”

Instinctually, you reach out to rub his stomach, which seems to settle him,

“Sleepy- Mama…”

“Then sleep, silly boy. Mama will be right here.”

It takes him a little longer to drift off, but you can tell, as you boy goes limp, almost drooling against your shoulder. Roose kisses your hair affectionately.

“He really does love you, dearest.”

“Mh. He’s happy, and so are you. That’s all I care about.”

“Everyone is happy tonight. Mama, Papa and Baby too.”

You give him a tired laugh, and kiss your son’s forehead. Feeling yourself begin to sleep,

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Hm- Love you.”

#got x reader #game of thrones x reader #got x reader smut #game of thrones x reader smut #ramsay bolton #ramsay snow #ramsay snow x reader #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton x reader smut #roose bolton #roose bolton x reader #roose bolton x reader smut #dark fic #dead dove fic #dead dove content #dead dove do not eat

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novaursa · 1 month ago

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The North Remembers Her

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore and death, Ramsay is also a warning just being him)

- Next part: the vow

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The wind bites like a blade against your skin as you urge your horse forward through the frost-covered woods. The North is yours—truly yours—and it will not bend to those who wear the flayed man. For days now, you’ve disrupted their efforts to snuff out resistance. Small raids, ambushes, stolen supplies—enough to keep the Bolton forces on edge and struggling to bring stability to a North that hates them.

And they should hate them. Your father’s face comes to mind: the steady grey eyes, the quiet honor in his voice. You cling to that image. To his memory. You are your father’s daughter, after all. A Stark of Winterfell.

But you miscalculated tonight. You see it now.

The flames of the Bolton camp lick angrily at the sky, their outline growing distant as you flee. You’d struck quick, torching their stores, and your band had been triumphant—until they weren’t. Until the Bastard of Bolton’s men came roaring through the woods, too swift, too many.

You glance over your shoulder. The forest is thick, snow falling heavily, but you hear the sounds of pursuit: pounding hooves, snapping branches.

“They’re close,” your man, Aedric, growls from beside you. He’s always been steady—stalwart like the pines you ride through. He’s your shield and sword in these dark days, sworn to follow you wherever you go. “Ride hard, my lady.”

My lady.

You hate that. You don’t feel like a lady. Not anymore.

Before you can answer, an arrow whistles past your face, close enough to graze your cheek. It cuts a cold line into your skin. Your horse rears in fright, and you nearly lose your hold. Aedric curses and wheels his mount.

“They have archers!” you hiss, your heart hammering like thunder.

And then you see him—emerging from the trees like a shadow—Ramsay Snow. Or Ramsay Bolton now, you suppose. He sits atop a dark horse, a twisted smirk curled on his lips. He is smaller than you expected beneath his furs, but there’s something hungry in his eyes that makes your stomach turn.

“Run, Stark,” he calls mockingly, his voice carrying clear over the din of the chase. “It’ll make this so much more fun.”

Aedric spurs his horse toward Ramsay, blade in hand. “Go!” he shouts back at you.

“No!” you cry, knowing his intent too late.

He charges, but Ramsay’s men surge forward first, surrounding him. You turn your mount, heart sinking. You see Aedric swing, cleaving one of them from the saddle—but there are too many.

Ramsay watches the slaughter with cold amusement as his men pull Aedric from his horse. You scream as you hear the dull thud of a blow landing, followed by Aedric’s yell—one of defiance and agony.

“Aedric!” your voice cracks.

You urge your horse forward, but something whistles again—a rope—snagging tight around your torso. You’re yanked from the saddle, hitting the ground hard. The air rushes from your lungs. You scramble to rise, but rough hands grab you, hauling you to your knees. Your vision swims.

When you lift your head, it’s just in time to see the final blow. Ramsay steps down from his horse, blade in hand, and approaches Aedric’s broken form.

“You tried so hard, didn’t you?” Ramsay muses softly, crouching beside him. “Loyal dog. Just like a good little wolf.”

Aedric spits blood at his boots. “You’ll die,” he rasps. “Your house will fall, bastard.”

Ramsay grins, eyes alight. “You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”

And with one quick motion, he plunges his dagger into Aedric’s throat.

You scream, thrashing in the grip of the soldiers holding you. You don’t stop until they’re forced to strike you hard across the face to silence you.

Ramsay stands and turns to you then, his smirk widening. Blood speckles his gloves and drips slowly from the blade in his hand. He walks toward you with deliberate ease, as if savoring the moment.

“Stubborn little wolf,” he purrs, crouching before you. His gloved fingers grasp your chin, forcing your face upward so he can look into your eyes. “I’ve been hunting you for days. Did you think your little games would last forever?”

“Get your hands off me,” you snarl, glaring defiantly.

Ramsay’s grip tightens. His eyes gleam with something dangerous. “Oh, you’ll learn manners soon enough.” He releases your face with a shove, and you almost fall backward.

“You killed him,” you whisper, choking on the words. “Aedric…”

“Was a bore,” Ramsay interjects dismissively, rising to his feet. “But you? You’re far more interesting. A Stark—running about like a common thief, setting fire to my men’s food. Adorable, really.”

“I’ll see you dead for this,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

Ramsay tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “How fierce you are. I wonder—” He steps closer, looming over you. “—how long will that fire last once I take you to Dreadfort?”

You freeze. The words hit you harder than a blow.

“You’ll find the North won’t kneel to your kind,” you spit, trying to hide the fear that gnaws at you.

Ramsay chuckles. “Your kind. My dear—your kind belongs to me now. Everything you are will belong to me.”

He snaps his fingers, and the soldiers wrench you to your feet. Your arms are bound behind your back. You struggle as they tie a length of rope to your wrists, securing you to a horse. Ramsay mounts his own steed, looking down at you with mock pity.

“Careful, little wolf,” he calls as the men tug you forward, forcing you to walk as they ride. “If you stumble, I won’t stop to wait.”

You bite your lip until it bleeds. You do not cry. You will not give him that.

Instead, you look ahead to the dark horizon, to Winterfell—your home—now corrupted. You’ll endure. You must. The North remembers, and you will make Ramsay Bolton regret ever crossing paths with you.

For your father.

For Aedric.

For every soul he’s ever harmed.

And for yourself.

The journey to the Dreadfort is long and bitter, the icy winds gnawing through your torn furs as if eager to flay you themselves. Your wrists ache from the ropes, chafed raw beneath the iron grip of the Bolton soldiers. Snow crunches beneath your boots with each forced step, and every mile feels heavier as the Bastard of Bolton rides ahead, watching you like a hawk watches its prey.

Ramsay Bolton.

You don’t look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, your thoughts turn inward, to her—your direwolf. Somewhere out in the snow-covered woods, your loyal companion roams free. You picture her as she was the last time you saw her: a blur of grey and white, her eyes bright with feral intelligence. She was your shadow, your fiercest protector.

“Your wolf’s out there, isn’t she?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the silence like a jagged blade.

You don’t answer, keeping your gaze fixed on the snow-covered road ahead.

Ramsay makes a low sound of mock disappointment. “So stubborn. It’s almost admirable.” He pulls his horse closer to you, the beast’s breath misting in the cold air as he looks down at you with a lazy smirk. “We’ve been hearing stories, you know. Wolves attacking my men. Tents torn apart. Horses spooked and left bleeding in the snow. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Still, you say nothing.

He tilts his head, his voice softening to a poisonous whisper. “Tell me, little wolf—what’s her name? Hmm? Does she listen when you call her? Or do you keep her like a secret, just for yourself?”

“She’s smarter than you,” you finally bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.

Ramsay’s smile widens. He seems delighted by your defiance. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Smarter than most of my men, too, it seems. But clever beasts can still be caught. And when I catch her…” He pauses for effect, watching your face carefully. “…I think I’ll make her howl for you before I flay her.”

Your blood goes cold. You snap your head up to glare at him, teeth bared. “Touch her and I’ll tear your throat out.”

Ramsay bursts into laughter, the sound sharp and cruel. “There’s the fire! You remind me of a cornered fox. Snapping and snarling, even when the hounds have you.” He leans closer, the reins held loosely in his hands. “But what will you do when the hounds close in, Stark? When they drag her down? Because they will.”

You keep your gaze steady, refusing to flinch. “She won’t be caught.”

“She will.” His tone is confident, mocking. “They always are. They’re predictable that way, animals. And when I catch her, I’ll make a cloak of her pelt. Maybe I’ll wear it when I take you to Winterfell.”

“You’ll wear your own skin before you wear hers.”

Ramsay’s amusement falters just slightly, his lips twitching as if he wants to sneer. He doesn’t. Instead, his expression smooths over into something calmer. Colder. More dangerous.

“You know,” he says softly, “my hounds don’t eat wolves. Too much fight in them.” His pale blue eyes lock with yours, unblinking. “But I wonder… would she eat you?”

You want to lunge for him, to strike him, to wipe that smug smile from his face. But the ropes dig into your wrists, and the soldiers pull you roughly forward again, forcing you to stumble.

Hours pass before the distant silhouette of the Dreadfort rises from the gloom. Its tall walls loom like dark shadows against the bleak sky. The sigil of House Bolton—the flayed man—flutters high above the gates, crimson against white. You force yourself not to look at it. The dread creeps into your chest anyway.

Ramsay dismounts as the gates creak open, his furs and leathers immaculate despite the journey. He moves with unsettling energy, gesturing for his men to drag you forward. You stumble as they push you through the muddy courtyard. The smell here is sharp and rancid—blood, rot, and smoke. You hear the muffled cries of prisoners carried on the wind, punctuated by the howling of hounds.

Lord Roose Bolton awaits you on the steps.

His face is pale and expressionless, as though carved from stone. The Lord of the Dreadfort regards you with his colorless eyes, unreadable in their scrutiny.

“Father,” Ramsay calls as he strides forward, gesturing toward you as if presenting a gift. “The last of the Starks. And quite a troublesome one at that.”

Roose’s gaze shifts to you, slow and deliberate. He says nothing at first, his face betraying no emotion. “You’ve been causing my men problems,” he finally states, his voice quiet, even.

“You’re not my lord,” you say defiantly, meeting his gaze. “And you took land that is not yours to have.”

Roose’s lips twitch faintly—a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That much is clear.” He turns to Ramsay. “Where did you find her?”

“Burning supplies,” Ramsay answers with a grin. “Her and a loyal little knight. He was less amusing. I dealt with him.”

Roose gives his son a sharp glance. “Careless. You should have taken him alive. The North won’t be won with Stark blood alone.”

Ramsay’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flicker with something… dark. He doesn’t answer, instead turning back to you. “The direwolf is still out there,” he offers. “Her pet. Roaming free, tearing at our men.”

Roose raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening on you. “Is this true?”

You press your lips together, saying nothing.

Roose studies you for a long moment before looking at his son. “You will keep her alive. For now.”

Ramsay’s face falls just slightly. “And what of her wolf?”

Roose steps closer to you, his expression cold and calculating. “The wolf will be hunted. And when it is found, it will die.”

You don’t let your face betray you. You keep your chin high, though your stomach twists into knots.

She’ll escape. She must.

Ramsay watches your silence with growing amusement. As the soldiers drag you toward the keep, he calls after you, his voice laced with dark delight.

“She’ll howl for you soon, Stark. I can’t wait to see if you howl back.”

The hall of the Dreadfort is as cold as the stone that forms its walls. Candles flicker weakly against the oppressive dark, their flames struggling to push back the shadows clinging to every corner. There’s no warmth here, no comfort. Only the sharp smell of roasted meat and the heavy silence that hangs between the occupants of the long dining table.

You sit at one end, your wrists finally free of bindings, but the freedom means little. You’re surrounded. Ramsay sits directly across from you, his sharp grin flashing whenever your eyes happen to meet his. Beside him is Reek—Theon Greyjoy as you once knew him, though this version of him is no more than a shell of the boy who grew up with you in Winterfell.

You don’t know what’s worse: the way he refuses to meet your gaze or the way part of you still hates him for his betrayal.

At the head of the table sits Lord Roose Bolton, stoic and calm, his eyes pale and unreadable. To his right, Lady Walda picks at her food. She is rotund and pink-cheeked, her smile small but earnest, as if she doesn’t understand the wolves that surround her. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care.

The scrape of a knife against a plate grates at your ears. Ramsay smirks as he slices into his meat, holding the bite aloft on his fork.

“You’re eating so little, my lady,” he drawls, his voice sweet and taunting. “Surely you must be hungry after a week in our fine hospitality.”

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on your untouched plate. The food smells fine enough—roasted venison, bread, and boiled greens—but you can’t bring yourself to lift a finger. The air itself seems poisoned, and each bite feels like it might choke you.

Ramsay laughs under his breath. “Such manners. Would you rather I feed you myself?”

“Enough,” Roose says softly. The word is barely louder than the crackle of the hearth, but Ramsay straightens immediately, though the grin doesn’t leave his face.

Roose sets his fork down with deliberate care, turning his pale gaze toward you. “You’ve caused much disruption since the war, Lady Stark,” he begins, his voice smooth and low, betraying nothing. “But you are a daughter of Winterfell. That gives you… value.”

You stiffen at his words, fingers curling tightly in your lap. “I’m of no value to you.”

Roose ignores your defiance. “My bannermen require stability. With the North in chaos, alliances must be secured. My initial plan was for Ramsay to wed Sansa Stark, but I see now that would not be wise.”

Your breath stills. You feel Ramsay’s eyes burning into you even before Roose says the words that steal the air from your lungs.

“You will marry Ramsay.”

The words echo in your ears like a death knell. You stare at Roose, disbelief and fury flooding your chest. For a long, painful moment, all you can hear is the low hum of the fire and the clink of Lady Walda’s fork as she awkwardly sets it down.

“No,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’ll never—”

“You will,” Roose interrupts coolly, his gaze sharpening. “A Stark under this roof lends legitimacy to my rule. Your presence will quell some resistance. For the good of the North, this is how it must be.”

You lurch to your feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor, but Ramsay is quicker. He stands, slamming his palm against the table, his laughter sharp and grating.

“Did you hear that, Father?” he mocks. “She refuses me. How rude.”

“I will never marry him,” you say again, louder this time. Your voice shakes, but you force steel into it. “You can kill me first.”

Ramsay’s grin widens as he rounds the table, approaching you. “Oh, come now, little wolf. You’d be such a pretty bride. Don’t you want to wear white? Isn’t that the Stark way?” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll even let you choose the color of the cloak for the bedding ceremony.”

Before you can answer—or strike him—Roose speaks again, cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Sit down.”

His voice is cold and calm, but it carries an unspoken threat. Slowly, you sink back into your seat, though your heart hammers violently in your chest. Ramsay lingers by your side for a moment longer, letting the weight of his presence suffocate you, before retreating with a smirk.

“This is for the good of the North,” Roose says again, his tone measured. “You may not see it now, but in time—”

“You think the North will accept this?” you cut in, glaring at him. “You think they’ll kneel to the flayed man because I’m paraded as your son’s bride? You don’t understand the North at all.”

Roose raises a pale brow, his expression unreadable. “The North remembers, yes. But memory fades when bellies go empty and fields are burned. Stability is survival. You are a means to that end.”

You feel the weight of Ramsay’s gaze on you again, watching your every breath, every flinch. You refuse to look at him. Instead, your eyes land on Reek, slouched in his seat at Ramsay’s side. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He stares at the table, thin and ragged, as if his very presence is an apology.

Your chest burns as you look at him—Theon Greyjoy. The boy you trusted, the boy who betrayed your family, who took your home and destroyed everything you loved. Hatred bubbles up like bile in your throat, but beneath it is something else: pity.

He feels your gaze, because he shifts slightly, his hands trembling where they rest on his lap. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He won’t.

“You can’t even look at me, can you?” you say softly, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Ramsay’s head snaps toward Reek, his grin widening as though your words have given him fresh amusement. “Look at her,” he orders, his tone mocking and sharp.

Theon flinches, his sunken eyes darting up to you briefly, hollow and ashamed. Then his gaze drops again, staring at the empty plate in front of him like a whipped dog.

“Good boy,” Ramsay croons, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Theon shudders at the touch but doesn’t react otherwise.

You turn away, disgust curling in your stomach as Ramsay resumes his seat.

“This is your choice, Lady Stark,” Roose says evenly. “You can resist all you like, but it will change nothing. The wedding will happen.”

You look at Roose Bolton—Lord of the Dreadfort, murderer of your brother, betrayer of the North—and feel a hatred so deep it makes your blood run cold. Then you look at Ramsay, his smirk carved into his pale face, as though he’s already won.

But they haven’t.

Not yet.

The North remembers. And so do you.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #got #house of the dragon #hotd #got ramsay #house bolton #house stark #ramsay bolton #ramsay x reader #ramsay x you #ramsay x y/n

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jackoshadows · 2 months ago

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Wait what?! There's a theory that Sansa said 'you know nothing Jon Snow' in their childhood? 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

This is an example of how these shippers just don't care about the context of that phrase and it's narrative importance to Jon Snow as a character and his arc of leadership. There's an actual reason for why Ygritte says that to Jon Snow! Why would Sansa say that to Jon?! What is happening?

It's like when they see quotes like 'You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall." or 'The white wolf raced through a black wood, beneath a pale cliff as tall as the sky. The moon ran with him' and it connects to the Moon symbology for both Dany and Arya and they want something similar for Sansa and they do this:

Like they just cut the sentence and took the first word of that sentence and attach it to the preceding sentence 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Also sun and son?! 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Like no need for meaning and sentence structure and all that - we will just take this word from here and put it together with that word from there and voila! Jonsa happens.

It's the same with 'You know Nothing'.

Let us read this paragraph both ways.

First, assuming this is the way it's meant to be read:

The Night's Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … "I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said. - Jon, ADwD

He nearly committed treason by running away to help for Robb, came back and decided that his place was at the Wall as a brother of the NW. Hence the first phrase.

Kill the boy and let the man be born - a man puts his duties above family and time and again Jon has chosen the Watch over his family - Bran, Rickon and Sansa.

You know nothing Jon Snow - If this phrase connects to any Stark it's Arya because Jon actually compares Ygritte to Arya several times, right from their tangled messy hair.

Secondly the phrase could play into his conflict of love or duty. It's a hard decision and one he cannot make easily. Is it right? Is it wrong? He doesn't know! What about his oaths and the threat from beyond the Wall? But then what about Arya being hunted by the likes of Ramsay Bolton? - 'You know nothing Jon Snow'

It's also the rule of three as he goes down the list - Jon chose NW over Robb, Jon chose the NW over family and now the third option - he chose Arya over the NW.

And Jonsa shippers know it makes no sense for their Jonsa nonsense when the whole paragraph is read hence why they selectively copy and paste only this sentence. Notice how it always starts at the end of Jon grouping Bran, Rickon and Sansa together:

Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

And taken out of context it makes no sense - 'Of Sansa' - what does it mean 'Of Sansa'? Because there is preceding text there that they just omit because it doesn't go with their 'theories'.

If you are going to attach 'You know nothing Jon Snow' to Sansa, then you have to do it for Bran and Rickon as well. Like so:

He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … "I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said. - Jon, ADwD

So even reading it this way - 'You know nothing Jon Snow' is about family, about Bran, Rickon and Sansa.

In which case:

'kill the boy and let the man be born' - when he abandoned Robb.

'You know nothing Jon Snow' when he abandoned Ygritte and equating this to how he has always put the NW above family.

'I want my bride back...I want my bride back...I want my bride back' - the reference to Arya as Ramsay's bride, he snaps at this point and we get the amazing 'We had the best change the plan' line from Jon Snow.

Again rule of three: NW vs love - Jon chose NW, NW vs love - Jon chose NW, and finally NW vs love, Jon chose love. Because yes, he does decide differently between Ygritte and Arya.

So any which way one reads that paragraph, 'You know nothing' is either connected to Arya or it's connected to Bran, Rickon and Sansa. So no, it's not a 'Jonsa related quote' lol.

'You know nothing Jon Snow' is not some phrase just connected to Ygritte for shipping reasons. It has meaning and weight behind it, it's about Jon's decisions as a leader and it increasingly comes into play in ADwD because leadership is hard and Jon is always having to make choices, of making the unpopular but right decisions and is increasingly confronted by the knowledge that yes, he does have a lot to learn and needs the advice of wiser folks like Maester Aemon, Donal Noye, Qhorin Halfhand and Samwell Tarly.

#Jon Snow #Ygritte #Arya Stark #Sansa Stark #Robb Stark #Rickon Stark #anti Jonsa

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